


Misery (Never Goes Out of Style)

by ItsYaBoiKeith (PetalsAndPurity)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Lovers to exes - Freeform, M/M, Memories, Nostalgia, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking, Underage Drinking, it's been so long since ive posted i've forgotten how to tag, no happy ending, sad yee-haw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetalsAndPurity/pseuds/ItsYaBoiKeith
Summary: Lance wished time wasn’t so stubborn. He wished it would move back - would allow him to change something, just once.(Or: Lance takes a walk through his old childhood town).
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Misery (Never Goes Out of Style)

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be writing FLTS. I also had a halloween short story that I was meant to post a couple of days ago, but this was finished first. So...here it is.
> 
> (TW: mentions of drug use, smoking, underage drinking)
> 
> Quick warning: I romanticise smoking a little. Please don't smoke!!!!!!! It's dangerous! Thank you.
> 
> I got the idea for this from the song Misery by Creeper. I highly recommend you listen - it's a great song.

The water trickled into the gutter below. The sky above was dark, and unending. A gust of wind blew and Lance held the umbrella tighter, fingertips numbing from the cold.

It was the early hours of the morning. Lance should be getting ready to travel back home - shouldn’t even _be_ here when his hotel was in the next town over. But he had to come back.

The same red-brick houses lined the street, the same peeling paint on the windows. There was even the same broken streetlamp, flickering on and off, as though signalling some form of morse code to the rest of the world, unheard and misunderstood.

He heard the creak of rusted swings in the park. The large iron fences still cast a cage-like shadow onto the road. The slide still stood tall: a dark, spiked silhouette on the horizon.

Beside it was still the old cemetery, and beside that, was the house he spent half of his childhood in. His home away from home.

_Keith’s house._

He stepped into a deep puddle as he crossed the road. The icy water filled his shoes and splashed on his jeans. He remembered nights of hiding in the bedroom in the attic - the small light in the window still glowed amber now, like a warm beacon through the dark.

He remembered the day he’d met Keith. It was at school, he was a new student. He’d walked into the room, head bowed, tie undone, shirt untucked. Doc martins instead of smart shoes, a hoodie hidden under his blazer. There was a clear stud on his lip to hide the fact he’d gotten a lip piercing. He’d been told by their teacher to sit next to Lance. They didn't talk.

People whispered about Keith, so Lance stayed away. Keith was pulled out of lesson a lot from the counsellor, and when he was in the lesson, he didn’t take part.

Keith had eventually became friends with one of Lance’s through an art project. Then, eventually became a friend of Lance’s, too.

They argued. Like fire and gasoline, no matter what the other said, the other disagreed. He had failed his test, while Keith passed. Keith offered to study with him - said that his Uncle wouldn’t mind a visitor.

Lance had at first refused, until he realised that he needed the grades to get into the university he’d wanted.

Keith and him had walked home after school together. He’d lead Lance past that cemetery, up a gravel path. His Uncle yelled at him to take his shoes off and not to slam the door, which he’d ignored with a crash and trod all over the grey carpet, running up the stairs with Lance in tow. He’d given Lance a beer which he’d kept hidden in the bottom of his wardrobe. Lance had never drunk before. Keith laughed at the way his face scrunched up on the first sip.

Keith's room was in the attic. It was small, and in the evening, the sunset would shine through the small window in the ceiling and bathe the room in a deep red.

His walls were painted black - messy, clearly done by himself - and covered in posters. In the corner there was an acoustic guitar, beaten down, stickers faded. Sometimes he'd play it for Lance - brow furrowed in concentration, eyes closed as though he was worlds away.

He couldn’t remember when he started to visit every evening, but it had happened some time in the months after. He remembered bunched up t-shirts covering the gap at the bottom of the door. How he leaned out the window and let the cold night air batter his cheeks. He had convinced himself that the cold was why they were so red, but now he knew that wasn't true.

He remembered pale hands passing him a spliff, the smoke filling his lungs, the burning in the back of his throat, in his chest, warming him. He remembered the lazy smile - chapped lips curled around a joint, raven-black hair that rivalled even the darkest of night skies. The eyes, smouldering, staring into his.

He remembered them, when the high hit and the stars in the sky swam like streetlights in a puddle, falling back onto the bed in fits of laughter. Of spending the night watching the cracks in the ceiling dance, the flicker of the old light. He remembered holding him, wishing he would never have to let go.

He remembered in that moment - the inevitable slotting together of puzzle pieces, the haze falling away, everything becoming clear.

“I think I’m bi,” Lance had said, smoke billowing from his lips with every word. Keith turned to face him.

“That’s okay.”

Lance let the cigarette butt burn his fingers.

“Is it?”

Lance shivered and walked past the cemetery. He remembered the day that Keith, and Lance, and their group of friends had spent the night there with a Ouija board. He remembered burrowing into the fabric of Keith’s coat as he watched the planchette move. As he watched the chipped black nail paint on Keith’s fingers, resting gently over his, the other hand rested on Lance’s knee.

He remembered drinking cheap tins of beer that they’d both stolen from the corner store - the old man that had owned it had chased them out onto the street, fist raised and face blotched red. They’d ran and laughed with adrenaline pounding in their chests.

He remembered how he’d drunkenly fallen forward in the street. How he’d kissed Keith. How he’d tasted whiskey and cigarettes on his lips - lips that kissed back so gently.

“You don’t mean that,” Keith said, but couldn’t stop himself from kissing Lance again.

But Lance showed him, the next morning, when they woke with pounding heads on Keith’s bedroom floor, tangled together, when he’d kissed him again, and asked him to be his.

“I mean it,” Lance had promised, a whisper against Keith’s neck.

Then came their days of fake IDs and sneaking into clubs. The music pounding in his chest as he swayed and moved on the dance floor, eyes watching the figure standing at the bar, moving his hands in a ‘come hither’ motion, trying to coax him to join.

On the walk back home, on this very street, he’d finally convinced Keith to dance with him, with only the stars and the wind as witness. They danced to the sound of their own feet pattering on the concrete.

Keith had stopped, slurring for him to close his eyes, placing hands gently over them. He could smell tobacco on Keith’s fingertips. They left, but a velvet voice urged him to keep them closed.

He’d opened them to see Keith struggling to balance on one knee, holding up a handful of grass, as though holding a dozen red roses.

“Marry me," he'd said.

And Lance had laughed.

“Okay."

That night, when Lance feigned sleep, he could hear Keith whisper, as he ran fingers through Lance’s hair: “ _I love you_.”

He remembered travelling on the underground to Camden Town, after their final exams. Rather than spend their time at prom where they’d have to wear uncomfortable suits and spend the night dancing with girls in order to fake what they had, they’d skipped out on it and escaped town for the night.

He’d burrowed into Keith for warmth, the comforting smell of his cologne, his woollen red scarf itchy on Lance’s cheek. He remembered loud music and dancing and singing until his throat was raw, as the crowd bounced around them like waves in the sea, and yet all Lance could see was Keith’s face in the glowing lights - his hair dancing as he bounced, his eyes so _alive._

He'd felt a sink in his stomach, thought about the letter he’d opened only hours before meeting with Keith. He’d been unable to bask in the proud hugs and congratulations from his Mama and Papa. He felt a weight in his chest every time he looked Keith’s way.

He had struggled to look him in the eye when they left the venue, ears ringing. The rain battered him, like icy bullets. Keith dragged him into a small Subway, claiming he was hungry. The lights flickered. The smell of bread and fried food nauseating.

Lance hadn’t had the guts to laugh at Keith’s lame order this time - just meat, no salad, no sauce. He hadn’t wrestled with Keith when he’d brushed Lance’s money off the counter and back into his hands, paying for their food himself.

He felt like choking on the bread as they sat and ate in silence. Lance picked, then wrapped it up again, squashing it in his shaking fists in an attempt to make it look smaller - like he’d eaten more than he had. So Keith didn’t think he’d wasted his money - his time.

They’d travelled home. Keith played with Lance’s hair again, something he did when Lance was tired. Lance felt his stomach sink more - Keith didn’t know what was happening, thought the distance and the quiet was because Lance was tired.

Lance stopped in front of Keith’s house. He could almost see himself, standing, hunched by the gate. The image of Keith’s face - eyes wide, glossed with tears - forever burned in his mind. He’d stumbled and choked on his words - how he’d gotten a place at university far away. How he’d accepted it. That he was ending things because long distance wouldn’t work - because Lance knew that Keith was too good, too _perfect_ to stay and wait for him. Keith deserved better than absence.

Lance had never seen Keith cry. Not even when he’d told him how his mother had left, how his father had died in a fire. Keith was scared of being upset - he more often than not shielded his sadness with anger. He’d seen Keith punch a hole in the wall after being rejected from university. He’d seen him, fists bloodied and lip busted outside the back of a club. He’d seen fiery words and a poisonous tongue and fury and anger and _rage -_ but never tears. And yet, as Lance broke to him that they couldn’t be together anymore - that Lance was _leaving_ \- Keith had cracked. A tear trickled down his cheek, the moonlight casting a sharp glow-like a crack across his skin. Before Lance could say another word, Keith was gone.

Away from his home. Away from the park. The cemetery. From Lance. Just - gone.

Lance hadn't seen him since. He hadn't tried to chase after him, for fear of changing his mind. Of not being able to leave him.

He found himself in front of the door. He remembered Keith’s Uncle - how he’d gotten so used to Lance visiting he’d always cook a meal for three, just in case. How even when Keith wasn’t home, Lance would visit and his Uncle wouldn’t bat an eye. Lance could help himself to coffee and whatever food was in the cupboards - let himself into Keith’s room to wait for Keith to return.

He didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he found himself now, knocking on the door.

The porch light switched on. It blinded him.

The door opened.

A woman. Blonde. Features soft and round and nothing like Keith.

“Can I help?” She asked.

Lance forced a smile. The creaky wooden stairs leading up to Keith’s room had been carpeted over. The walls freshly painted.

He hoped the tears running down his cheeks looked like droplets of rain.

“No. Wrong address. Sorry - have a good evening.”

He turned on his way, walking away from the amber light. Away from the memories of what had been, what _could have been_.

He remembered again, Keith, drunk, on one knee.

_“Marry me.”_

Lance wished time wasn’t so stubborn. He wished it would move back - would allow him to change something, _just once._

But it didn’t, and it wouldn’t, so he let the guilt and regret swallow him whole, again.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, lit a cigarette, and turned back, heading back to the bus stop. Back to his empty hotel room.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr :) https://petalsandpurity.tumblr.com/


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